Garbage Day
by gypsy season
Summary: I'm surprised no one's every touched on this topic before. Just a funny little thing about a man named Thomas A. Anderson inspired by Agent Smith's line "And you help your landlady carry out her garbage...*face*"


TITLE: Garbage Day

AUTHOR: Multicolored Gypsy  
SUMMARY: Inspired by Agent Smith's fabulous line "and you help your landlady carry out her garbage…", this fic touches on a new aspect of the film. This follows a Saturday morning of a certain Mr. Anderson.

SPOILERS: None

CATEGORIES: Humor

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Yes, I know Vanessa Carlton wasn't famous in 1999, but just look past that minor detail. For a humor fic's sake. 

Thomas A. Anderson woke up in his bed tangled in his blankets on a beautiful (yet un-real) Saturday morning. After a few minutes of un-tangling himself from his bed – yes, he's that slow (try watching that in bullet-time) – he jumped out of bed, picking up a random shirt from his pile of clothes collecting in a corner and pulling it on.

"Just a day, just an ordinary day. Just trying to get by. Just a boy just an ordinary-"

Thomas A. Anderson wasn't very rich, so he could only afford a cheap radio, which would spontaneously start playing Vanessa Carlton, which was very inconvenient – Mr. Anderson preferred Michelle Branch.

He started the day by making coffee. As the coffee was getting made, he sat himself down in his computer chair and checked the results of his overnight automatic search about the Matrix on his oh-so-tacky black and white computer screen. Just like before, nothing useful was found. Although he did get quite a few porn pop ups…

Soon after, the coffee was ready; Thomas A. Anderson poured himself a cup, took a large sip and promptly spit it out.

"Shit!" Thomas A. Anderson cursed, spitting again, hoping to relieve his mouth of the horrible taste of plain black coffee. Then he wiped his tongue with a tissue. Then he used some breath spray.

Thomas A. Anderson rarely slept, and seeing that sleeping eventually led to waking up, he never did much of that either. Therefore, being rather disoriented, the thought of just adding some milk and sugar didn't even cross his mind as dumped the entire pot of coffee down the sink. "Damn coffee…"

Poor Mister Anderson.

"What day is it?" Thomas A. Anderson mumbled to himself, making his way to the calendar hanging on the wall, slanted sideways. "Oh…Saturday…" He muttered passively, but halfway back to his bed he froze. "Saturday!"

He glanced at the clock, which read '8:25' in bright red numbers. Thomas A. Anderson panicked. The garbage truck came at 8:35!

Thomas A. Anderson was late. No, he wasn't late for work, but he was late for something equally important. He was late for his "coincidental" run-in with Mrs. Berkley, his landlady. Every garbage day, Thomas A. Anderson would purposely plan to be coming back upstairs just as Mrs. Berkley was leaving her apartment. It had worked every time, seeing that Mrs. Berkley was obsessive about the time she left her apartment.

Thomas A. Anderson leaped across his room, grabbed the garbage bag from his trash can and tore out of the apartment.

"Shit! Shit shit shit!" He muttered when he found out the elevator was broken and his last resort was to take the stairs a whole fourteen floors down to the lobby. "This is crazy!" He said to himself when he was seven floors down. Finally, out of breath, Thomas A. Anderson arrived in the lobby, where he ran out back and tossed his garbage into the dumpster.

He took a break for a few moments, resting with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, but he didn't even have a minute, for he had to run back upstairs to meet Mrs. Berkley. After what seemed like forever, he collapsed at the top of the stairs just as Mrs. Berkley walked out of her room.

"Tomorrow's pay day, Anderson." She growled in her deep, raspy voice. Mrs. Berkley was a rather large woman with about five chins. She never went anywhere without her beige feather boa, which hardly ever matched any of her ensembles. Thomas A. Anderson nodded, not being able to talk.

Thomas A. Anderson nodded, taking a deep breath. "May I help you with your garbage?" He said in a tone that clearly stated that he was an idiot.

Mrs. Berkley raised an eyebrow, looking a little surprised, seeing that her garbage bag was barely bigger than her fist. "I don't see why I can't carry it myself." She started to walk to the elevator, but Mr. Anderson jumped in front of her.

"But the elevator's broken, Ma'am. It's a terribly long walk down to the lobby. Oh and did I mention how lovely you're looking today?"

Mrs. Berkley smiled, her cheeks turning a slight pink. "Please?" Mr. Anderson all but begged. "Please, can I help you carry out your garbage? I don't want you to hurt yourself on the stairs with such a heavy load." He had rehearsed the line a countless amount of times that it ran of his tongue naturally.

At that moment, a man dressed in sunglasses and a grayish green suit came down the hall, heading to the stairs. He wore an earpiece on his ear, the cord spiraling down into his collar. "How nice." He said to himself, then he spoke to Mrs. Berkley. "You should be grateful to have such a considerate neighbor. You're very kind, Mr. Anderson." And then he left, laughing like a maniac.

Almost as soon as he closed the door to the stairs behind him, a fight broke out. Guns were being fired, people were screaming, and things were breaking; chaos was reigning. Mrs. Berkley smiled, chuckling to herself, then handing her garbage bag to Mr. Anderson. "You can have it, Anderson." She smiled deviously.

Thomas A. Anderson kept a fake smile plastered to his face. "It's a pleasure to help you in your time of need." My god! He thought. Could this get any cheesier? And then Mrs. Berkley went back inside her apartment.

Thomas A. Anderson deflated like a balloon, his 'sucking up' image quickly disappearing until what remained was the 'hacker – jack off' image. He looked towards the stairs, where the guns still hadn't gone off. He shrugged and went inside his apartment. He paused for a few moments, considering what to do. After reaching a verdict, he went to the window and opened it. A cool breeze (over the mountains) hit him smack in the face and messed up his hair. "Damn Keanu." He muttered, fixing his hair.

And then he tossed the garbage bag out the window. He suddenly regretted it; down below, a tall, leather clad woman with short dark hair was running towards the phone booth on the corner of the street. She was totally oblivious to the falling trash until it hit her in the head.

Many curses followed, some of which that I don't know how to spell, so I'll leave you to use your imagination.

  


"Watch what you throw, asshole!" She shouted up at Thomas A. Anderson, flipped him off and then ran to the phone booth.

"Fuck you too!" He called back at her. "All these freaks…they're ruining the city." He muttered to himself. Then he flopped onto his bed. The motion caused his radio to turn on.

"Then he asked if I would come along and it all seemed so real. And I looked to the door and saw-"d

Thomas A. Anderson's fist came down so hard on the radio that it shattered into a million pieces. Finally, just when he thought he'd get some peace and quiet, his phone rang. Mumbling, he gets up and answers it.

"Hello?" He sounded aggravated.

"Oh, and I forgot to remind you. Pay day's tomorrow."

SLAM went the phone, which broke as well. And Thomas A. Anderson pulled off his shirt, crawled back into bed and buried himself under the blankets.

"I hate garbage day."

The End!


End file.
